Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
by Ashfae
Summary: Vidfic starring Sanosuke.


Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

  


by Ashfae

* * *

_An eight year old boy is stumbling through the woods. His clothes once might have been white; now they are stained with blood and dirt. His hair is sticky with dried blood, matted to the side of his head. He trips every few feet, exhausted and overwhelmed, his small body pushed to the limit. His hands are scraped, the skin rubbed raw by the trees he uses to pull himself to his feet. He goes on without pause, forcing himself forward. _

He breaks into a clearing and sags to the ground, staring at the scene before him in helpless grief. Dead bodies are sprawled everywhere, draped over broken furniture, half-covered by collapsed tents. In the center of the destruction burns a bonfire, fueled by more corpses and the banners that the boy himself used to carry proudly. 

The boy swallows his tears and crawls forward. 

There's a grief that can't be spoken   
There's a pain goes on and on   
Empty chairs at empty tables   
Now my friends are dead and gone 

_He moves from body to body, mouthing names as he goes. Hideo, Zuiken, Jikkyo, Ieyasu. Jozen, Yasumori, Okura, Soichirou. He lays his hands carefully on each corpse's chest, hoping against hope that one of them will breathe. Just one._

Here they talked of revolution   
Here it was they lit the flame   
Here they sang about tomorrow   
And tomorrow never came 

_It wasn't supposed to be like this. They had succeeded. The war was nearly over, the Meiji Era just dawning. The new era, the era of peace. They were supposed to be heroes._

From the table in the corner   
They could see a world reborn   
And they rose with voices ringing 

_Sanosuke voice cracks halfway through the name of his best friend's older brother, who lies sprawled in front of him. The man's chest has been torn apart by bullets. His eyes are blank, disbelieving, his mouth is still open in a scream of horror. Sanosuke's fingers clench into fists; he digs them into his own closed eyes, trying to erase the truth he feels imprinted on them, the memory of the past few hours._

  
I can hear them now!   
The very words that they had sung   
Became their last communion   
On the lonely barricade, at dawn... 

_Sanosuke jerks away from the corpse of a man he called friend, tears streaming down his face. He moves out of the camp, reluctantly heading towards the river and not wanting to face what he knows is waiting him there. _

On the edge of a cliff, one arm still flung towards the river below, lies his master, his god, his foster-father. The body is riddled with bullets, the face a mask of blood. Sanosuke flings himself on his captain's body, sobbing. 

Years later, he flings a punch towards a rival gangster. All he knows is anger, frustration, helplessness. His loss reverberates within him through the years, only growing stronger as time passes. 

Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me   
That I live, and you are gone   
There's a grief that can't be spoken   
There's a pain goes on and on 

_He fights, he drinks, he gambles, and nothing helps him forget. Finally he makes his way back to the place they called their own, deep in the forest. There is nothing there now. The tents and furniture were taken long ago by looters, the bodies burned or buried. There is nothing there to remind him, no sign that anything ever happened- and yet he remembers the location of every body he named, every broken banner._

Phantom faces at the window   
Phantom shadows on the floor   
Empty chairs at empty tables   
Where my friends will meet no more 

_He lies on his back in the middle of the clearing and stares at the sky. There are no more tears in him; there have not been for a long time. He does not hear the sounds of the forest around him. He does not see the clouds breaking through the trees. In his ears, screams echo. In his mind, he sees the flash of guns. Again he lies on the battlefield, the ruins of a dream that should have been a reality scattered around him. _

His eyes narrow; one fist bangs on the ground in impotent fury. 

Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me   
What your sacrifice was for 

_He sits up, rubbing his forehead as though pained. He looks around and sees clearing, trees, grass, birds. There is nothing here to remind him...and yet he remembers. Eventually he stands and walks away, hands buried in his pockets, the sign for "evil" branded onto his back._

  
Empty chairs at empty tables   
Where my friends will sing no more. 

* * *

The song "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" is taken from the musical _Les Miserables_, music/lyrics by Alain Boubuil and others. 

ashfae@technicaldetails.org   
http://www.ashfae.net 


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